


The Mountains Straight Reply

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Sexuality Series [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, BDSM, Dominance, Examination of sexuality, First Kiss, First Time, First scene is a flashback to Clint's childhood, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Sexuality, Sexuality Crisis, Societal expectations, Submission, but no sadomasochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil’s breath caught in his throat as he almost drowned in those blue grey eyes. Clint tilted his head and tipped his glass up to his lips, a small drop lingering on the corner before he swiped it away with the tip of his tongue. With a throb of interest, Phil’s cock reminded him of just how long it had been since he’d paid it any attention.</p><p>“See, here’s the thing,” Clint continued. “I finally have a handle on what I want out of life and how to make it happen. Took far too many years and bad decisions, but I had some help along the way. You, on the other hand, still live for your damn job. I’ve seen your apartment, Phil. I know how many nights you sleep on your couch and this promotion is only going to make that worse.  You haven’t even been to a flea market in over a year; think of all the Cap memorabilia you’ve missed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mountains Straight Reply

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in an occasional series exploring various sexualities. I've been thinking about this for awhile, a way to examine through stories the boundaries and fluidity of gender. 
> 
> I started with some questions. Could someone be submissive and not be a masochist? A dominant but not be a sadist? And if so, what would that relationship look like? If you read d/s stories, you almost always find the two linked. But, as so many of my lovely readers have pointed out, d/s doesn't always have to involved whips and handcuffs. Thanks to everyone who left such wonderful comments; part of this series is my own journey of learning about other lifestyles and the language to talk about them. 
> 
> My thinking is that submission is about allowing someone else to take control -- the act of giving that power to another could be both arousing as well as freeing. Along the way, serving another got mixed into both; a sub providing for his dom, and a dom protecting and taking care of his sub. I'm not sure if the story works; I wrestled with the plot and depictions here, my intention to provide vignettes of Phil and Clint's lives and the struggle they went through to figure out their own sexuality. It's very different that most of the stories I write: I hope I've done it justice.

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -

In Corners - till a Day

The Owner passed - identified -

And carried Me away -

 

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -

And now We hunt the Doe -

And every time I speak for Him

The Mountains straight reply -[1]

 

 

“Shut your mouth, boy!” Harold Barton screamed, spittle flying from his lips. Eyes rimmed with red, veins snaking across the white, his blue corneas faded.  “Mistakes shouldn’t be seen or heard.”

Clint crossed his arms over his head in a vain attempt to ward off the coming blow.  His father changed directions and the folded knuckles slammed into Clint’s exposed stomach. His peanut butter sandwich threatened to come back up, throat flexing as he swallowed to keep it down.  Just don’t cry, he repeated to himself. Tears only made his father angrier.

“It’s your fault!” Harold shouted at Edith. “You lied to me about those damn pills!”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, voice trembling. A growing bruise, flushed red, spread across her cheek but she held her hands down at her sides. “Let Clint go to his room. I promise he won’t be any more trouble.  You won’t even know he’s here. Then I’ll put dinner on the table; it’s your favorite pork roast.”

For a breath, the tableau hung suspended, Harold’s hand ready to fly again, Edith’s face stained with tears, and Clint flinching, eyes downcast.

“Fine. But I better not hear another word out of you, boy.”  Harold stepped back, a flash of satisfaction in his gaze. “Get my food, woman. Then we’ll talk about how you’re going to make it up to me.”

* * *

The freshly starched cuffs of Phil’s white dress shirt scraped across the tender skin of his wrist where he’d slid into home base during the championship game. Red and raw, the slash of missing skin burned but his mother insisted the bandage was too bulky beneath his suit. Just thirty more minutes, Phil chanted to himself. They’d only rented the hall until 4 p.m. and the decorations for the Bronson’s wedding reception were stacked along the back wall.

“There’s the man of the hour!” Charles Coulson crowed, patting Phil on the back hard enough to push him forward a step. “Which of these pretty girls are you going to dance with? You’ve got your choice today.”

Voice filled with pride, Phil’s grandfather beamed as he looked at Phil, the perfectly cut suit, straight back, and cleanly trimmed hair.  No need to remind Phil that the hopes of the whole family rode upon his slim shoulders.  He heard it every day, how smart and mature he was, what a great leader he would be. He cared for his baby sister, ran the household while his mother worked two jobs, and gave her the support she needed.

“Who do you think I should ask?” Phil wished for once someone would make the choice for him.

“Ah, don’t ask an old man, Phil. You know what you like,” his grandfather teased. “Do what you want.”

Phil knew what he liked. Michael Johnson was flirting with that red-headed girl from St. Anne’s, his jacket discarded and his sleeves rolled up.  He heaved an internal sigh and headed over to the clump of girls by the punch bowl. Maybe Patricia would take pity on him.

* * *

“Damn it, Clint,” Barney mumbled in the dark room, fumbling the stolen ice into a rag and pressing it to Clint’s face. “You know better than to go up against Franklin. What were you thinking?”

Clint winced; the cold burned through the thin terry cloth of the threadbare washrag. “He was going after Martin. You know what he did to Barry.”

“That’s not our problem,” Barney huffed. He dug into his pocket and produced a square white package. Ripping it open, he passed over the two generic painkillers. “Three more days, Clint. We have to fly under the radar and then we’re out of here. Keep your head down and for God’s sake, shut your mouth.”

Lower lip protruding, Clint pouted, hurt that his brother didn’t see the importance of stopping the bully. “They sent Barry to psych.”

Barney shuddered; what Franklin called taking your medicine made everyone toe the line and do what the big kid wanted.  Bloody sheets and screams still echoed in Clint’s memory of that night. 

“And that’s where you’ll end up if you don’t do what you’re told. It’s not hard,” Barney replied. “Yes, sir. Whatever you want, sir. That’s all you need to say.”

“So you want me to suck his dick next time he demands it?” Clint asked.

“If that’s what it takes to get out of here in one piece, you damn well better.” Barney gazed at his brother. “You’re too small and young to stand up for yourself yet. One day. But you’ve got to live long enough to get there.”

* * *

Her wrists flexed beneath his palms as she arched up, nipples dragging across Phil’s bare chest.

“Tighter, please. Hold me down, Phil. Take me.” She moaned and writhed, bringing their naked bodies in full contact. “I need a big strong man like you.”

He recoiled in his head, body becoming distant.  The cool breeze from the cracked window chilled his skin, and he became aware of all the noises in the dorm hallway, masculine voices raised in laughter, shouting back and forth between rooms. His cock, half-hard against the curve of her hip, wilted and turned flaccid.

“I’m sorry. I …” Phil mumbled out an apology, pulling away and sitting up. “I just … there’s so much noise … I shouldn’t have …”

“It’s okay,” she said, following him up and cupping his cheek. “Happens to guys when they’ve had too much to drink. Those jello shots were pretty potent. Roll over. I can handle this.”

He found himself on his back, the ceiling spinning in lazy circles, a warm mouth engulfing his cock. In the dark, he closed his eyes and imagined another blonde head bobbing up and down. That a strong hand splayed on his hip and a masculine thigh nudged against his balls. As he pictured dark eyes peering up the length of his body, filled with lust, Phil groaned. Tongue curled around his cock and sucked hard; Phil’s orgasm hit fast and he cried out.

“See? Not a problem.” She smiled at him, wiping the corners of her lips. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she started to get up.

“Hey, no, wait.” Phil caught her wrist. “Least I can do is return the favor.”

Surprised colored her eyes. “Usually guys roll over and go to sleep,” she said with a laugh.

“Well, I’m not like them. Let me do this for you.”  He waited, worried if he’d given too much away.

“Okay.” She laid back and stretched her long legs out on the comforter. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Make me come, Phil.”

This he could do. All he needed was to be told.

* * *

“That’s the last mistake you’ll make.” The barrel of Jacques’ gun never wavered, perfectly aimed at Clint’s heart.  “You think you know best but let me enlighten you. Little shits like you end up kicked to the curb or dead in a river.”

“What the hell, Clint?” Barney asked. He shook his head and sighed. “Why did you have to go open your stupid mouth? This was our ticket out of the traveling freak show.”

“You stole from Mr. Carson. He’s been good to us, Barney. How could you?” Clint demanded.

“Good to us? Man’s been padding his take, Clint. We’ve barely got enough to eat and I’m not spending another winter shivering in the cold.”  Barney moved forward, closing in on his brother.

“So you’re going to become a thief as well as a killer?” Clint blurted. Barney’s face hardened; his familiar blue eyes going cold and distant.

“Franklin was going to rape you, or have you forgotten that, caught up in your fame? The Amazing Hawkeye, my ass. You’re the same skinny kid who always needs taking care of. Well, I’m done. Good luck, Clint. Go run your life the way you want since you don’t like my plans.” Barney turned and walked away, not looking back.

“You had talent, kid. You just won’t listen to anyone else,” Jacques said.

The gunshot rang loud in the empty tent.

* * *

“Missed you at mess.” Marcus Johnson blocked the sun as he entered the tent; he left the flap up and the wind blew dust along the hard packed dirt outside. “It was mac and cheese day. I know how much you love processed cheese.”

He sat the tray on the trunk that served as Phil’s bedside table.  The orange covered macaroni congealed in the heat, ice already gone from the weak tea. At least the chocolate chip cookie package was unopened.

“The wound bothering you? Or are you still moping?” Marcus jumped right to the point. “Do I need to remind you that you saved eight good men out there today? Or do you need a swift kick in the ass? ‘Cause I can do that too.”

“Two didn’t survive,” Phil protested. He’d replayed it over and over in his head; his orders had sent those men to their deaths, right into the path of a buried IED.

“That’s war, Phil. Regardless of what the chickenshits at home say, this is war, make no mistake. Now, you’re one of the best rangers I’ve ever seen, myself excluded of course, so pick yourself up and get over it.” Marcus handed over the tray; Phil balanced it on his lap and tried to scoop up some of the thick goopy stuff. It tumbled back in the bowl in a clump. “I’m making it an order, Lieutenant. Eat. Get up then meet me for the daily sitrep.”

The band across Phil’s chest snapped and he dragged in a deep breath. He could do this, one order at a time. Don’t think, don’t make decisions, just do. Spooning up a bite, he popped it in his mouth and glared at Marcus.  The gluey mess stuck to the roof of his mouth and his words came out garbled. “Yeth, Thir.”

“Don’t sweat it, Cheese. Corpsman Donaldson is going to change your dressing before you get going. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” Marcus winked and stood.  “Make it quick.”

Andy stuck his head in the tent, the sunlight glinting on his short cropped blonde hair. “You ready for me, sir?”

Phil smiled for the first time in days.

* * *

The bullet tore through skin and sinew, pain a searing lance through his side. Clint stumbled but kept his hold on his bow as he shoved the agony away and ran for the alleyway. Pursuit thundered around the far corner of the square; he dodged behind a display of scarves, winding through the small tables of wares from the passing shops.

This job had been a clusterfuck from the beginning, but Clint couldn’t say no. He desperately needed money; ramen noodles might be cheap, but they only went so far. And his cough rattled his chest now, liquid and troubling. Still, Clint could say he’d taken the jobs he wanted to; he might be an assassin, but he fooled himself into believing he was better than that.

The clouds chose that moment to open up, a cold rain falling in sheets that pattered on the cobblestones.  Ducking into the alley, Clint took the three steps to the fire escape, gathered his strength and jumped, catching the lowest rung on the ladder and clambering up. Drops of blood ran down his leg, mixed with the rain and washed away.  His luck ran out; he just made the first landing before one of the beefy thugs saw him, firing a spate of bullets that ricocheted off the metal.  A flash of pain from his side, Clint twisted and climbed the next level as the thug followed. He refused to think about slipping on the slick rungs, tumbling down and splattering onto the alley below; a fitting end, he thought, bleeding out beside a garbage bin. Instead, he plowed upward, breath ragged, focus on each handhold as he climbed all the way to the roof just as the man’s hand closed around his ankle.

The gun shot from above startled Clint, but not as much as the thug whose eyes widened as red blossomed from his chest. Stepping back, the man bumped the railing and went over without a word, the sickening crunch the only sound of his demise.

“You going to stay there? There’s more on the way.” The man who peered over the edge wore a black eye patch, his bald head shiny with rain. 

Six of one, half dozen of the other. Clint hauled himself over the edge and onto the roof. Wow, this guy had a serious leather fetish. Long black coat, black pants and black turtleneck.  Precision hardware, the kind of guns that spoke of money or government funding.

“So, I’m not going to give you the big recruitment speech. I’m pretty sure the contract out on you is incentive enough. But I am going to give you the choice. A one-time offer. Come work for me or head on your merry way.  Let me know by tomorrow. Extraction is at 08:00 at Dusseldorf, hanger 14.” He produced black card and passed it over; Clint took it in his bloody fingers.  “I’ll lead them off you now, but there will be more.  Good thing they couldn’t shoot worth shit.”

He left Clint lying in the rain, flipping a piece of paper with a silver eagle on one side and a name on the other: Nick Fury.

* * *

 

“How’s your mom?” Jasper asked.

Phil took his attention away from the new recruits who were sparring in the gym below. Truth be told, one specific rookie with dark blonde hair and straining biceps. “All settled into the new condo. Much as she hated to move out of the house, this is a much better situation. No stairs, they take care of the lawn, a spa and pool with water aerobics. She’ll be happier once she realizes how much free time she’ll have.”

“So you dragged her kicking and screaming, eh?” Maria commented, stepping up behind them.

“I convinced her it was in her best interest.” Long emotional conversations, his mother crying, and Phil finally gave her no other option. He understood it was the house they grew up in, but climbing and cleaning exhausted her too quickly these days.  Still, he hadn’t slept more than two hours at a time while they closed the house out and went through the furnishings. His mother refused to make choices, so Phil boxed and donated and stored for her.

A scuffle broke out on the mats; a bull of a man, buzz cut brown hair, arms so big he couldn’t completely put his arms down, bellowed and grabbed a fistful of black t-shirt with one meaty hand as he dragged his opponent back towards him. 

“Damn it, Barton,” Maria sighed. “Just can’t stop antagonizing people. It’s his gift.”

Using his thighs, Barton harnessed the force of the other guy’s pull and launched himself into a perfect backflip, twisting as he did, shirt riding up and left dangling in the bully’s fist. Dancing around the larger man, Barton taunted him. “Come on, Moose. You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to catch me.”

“Oh, you want to be caught,” the big guy shot back. “Ass like yours? I bet you like to be held down.  You want someone to make you be good.”

Phil’s breath caught in his throat; Barton’s bare chest revealed well-defined muscles and washboard abs, covered in sweat. Sweatpants hung low on his hips, the curve of his obliques peeking out. Tamping down in his reaction, Phil glanced at Jasper; too late. His friend’s eyebrow arched up and he grinned at Phil.

Lumbering steadily around the mat, the big guy stayed three steps behind Barton’s fast combination of tumbling and quick footwork.  Barton goaded him at each turn.  “Don’t need any help being better than you, Stevens.”

With a roar, Stevens lunged; Barton dodged and avoided the tackle, leaving Steven’s face down on the floor. Pushing up on his elbows, Stevens glared at Barton. “You got to sleep sometime, Barton. Then your ass is mine. And I’ll teach you some manners.”

“You can try,” Barton said with a laugh as he sauntered away.

“That’s one cocky bastard,” Jasper said with a grin. “Good thing he’s going to be assigned to you, Phil. I think I’d kill him.”

“Barton’s one of mine?” Phil asked, turning to Maria.

“He needs a firm hand,” Maria replied. “Everyone else he’ll either drive crazy or they’ll try and break his spirit. You’re the best option.”

Squashing the spark he felt, Phil mentally cursed his lot in life. “Tell me you’re going to wash out Stevens and I’ll do it.”

“Oh, he’s already on my radar. He’ll be gone by the morning,” Maria assured him.

* * *

 

Her green eyes scanned him from head to toe as she pushed up from the small bed in her isolation cell.  “You’re still alive,” she said, her smile quirking up on one side.

“Surprisingly, bringing in the Black Widow is considered a good thing, so they’re overlooking my lack of respect for superiors,” Clint said, sinking down cross-legged on the floor. No chairs, no table, nothing in Romanov’s cell. “Garrison’s still in with the muckety mucks, probably trashing me as we speak.”

He’d taken one look at the infamous assassin through his scope and knew exactly where her mind was. The exhaustion that lined her face and slowed her reaction time by mere seconds that could mean the difference between life and death. Clint might have issues with SHIELD protocol and being told what to do, but being alive, having friends, owning a motorcycle, and settling in one place was worth the tradeoff. If he had to shut up and take what people dished out, what did that matter in the scheme of things?

“You promised me all of SHIELD wasn’t like that short sighted fool,” Natasha reminded him. “Your Agent Coulson, for example. He spoke highly of your decision making skills.”

For a second, Clint preened under the second handed compliment; Coulson’s opinion mattered to him. He listened to Clint’s suggestions and even given Clint control of the B team on their last op. Also, the man was sexy as hell. Smoky hot body, funny smile, gorgeous eyes, a self-deprecating wit and he trusted Clint to run the show? Yeah, Coulson just might have featured in a few of Clint’s night time fantasies. Too bad he was way out of Clint’s league, not to mention not interested.

“Phil’s intelligent.” Clint winked. “He knows goodness when he sees it.”

Those clear green eyes pierced right through Clint’s bravado and saw into his soul, the same way they had in that cafe when Clint had sat down across from her.  “He’s not that smart,” she replied. “Neither are you. One day, maybe, you’ll understand. Now, when are they going to let me at least go to the gym? I can feel my muscles atrophying as I sit here.”

* * *

"Come on, Coulson. Almost there. One foot in front of the other.”

Clint’s voice nudged Phil out of his stupor and he staggered forward another few steps. Cold wind bit at his nose, ice formed on his lashes and numb feet dragged through the growing snow.

“I can see the cabin. Just a little bit more. Then we’ll have a warm fire and some coffee. Probably instant, but that’s better than nothing. At least we don’t have to worry about water.”

His fingers burned where they were tucked inside his jacket, and his throat stung with each icy breath. Worst, his fuzzy vision matched the spinning in his head and the insistent ache in the back of his neck. Gas. He remembered the fetid smell and the acidic taste. Gunshots. Natasha running, a black speck disappearing over the ridge.

“Stay right here. Going to open the door. Don’t move.”

Clint’s words devolved to orders in Phil’s messed up brain. Stay. Don’t move. He stopped fighting the confusion; he trusted Clint to get him through this.

“Inside. Come on. See? No more wind.”

Blinking to clear his eyes, Phil sighed and sagged down onto a stone hearth. Clint bustled around the large room, talking the whole time.

“First item of business: build a fire. Enough wood and tinder here, just need to check the flue. While I do that, start with your boots and strip down to your underarmour.”

Flexing his fingers, Phil tried three times to untie the frozen laces before he got a good hold on them.  As he pulled the first one off and dropped it on the floor, Clint cursed, drawing out of the fireplace with black soot speckled across his face and in his hair.

“Okay, at least we know that works. Keep going over there. We’ll have warmth soon.”

Following directions without thought soothed Phil; he need only think of loosening the laces from the grommets, easing the second boot off and carefully placing it near the first. Avoiding the puddle of water that formed around his shoes, Phil stood in his stocking feet and slipped his jacket off, taking two steps to drape it over the back of one of the kitchen table chairs. The room drifted into focus as the first whiff of smoke tickled his nose. One large space, cabinets, sink and stove in one corner, table for eating, a double bed near the fire, a comfortable old couch, locked storage shelves, and what was probably a tiny bath behind the one walled off area.

“Come on, damn you. Light. I need a cup of coffee already.”

Coffee. Clint wanted coffee. Stepping out of his pants, Phil hung them next to his black tac shirt and padded over to the cabinets.  Two tries and he found a half full can of Maxwell House and individual sugar packets in a tin beside the powdered creamer.  Next to the stove, he found an old fashioned pot and, surprisingly, clear water poured out of the faucet on the first try. He still ran it for a good minute before he filled up the blue speckled metal and carefully measured the grounds into the strainer. If he thought of nothing else, he could do this, and it made him calmer to provide for Clint.  By the time he got back to the fireplace, tendrils of flame curled up around the thicker logs, resin beginning to crackle. He hung the pot on the hook and pushed it over the fire.

“Coffee.” Clint glanced up at him, pleasure shining in his blue eyes. “Thanks, Phil.”

Two little words that shook Phil to his core. Clint Barton, on his knees, thanking Phil. Telling Phil what to do. Making the decisions for him. Taking care of him and Phil taking care of Clint.

“Now, let’s find some blankets for you to curl up with and I’ll see if I can get through to HQ. Natasha should be safely away; time to check the weather and find out when we can get an extraction team up here. Shouldn’t be long.

* * *

“Red. Okay? Red.”

Clint rolled off the bed and sat on the edge, his head in his hands. What the fuck was wrong with him lately? Sure, tie me up, tie me down stuff wasn’t really his thing, but to go completely flaccid in the middle of sex with a guy as hot as Julian?

“Everything okay?” Julian immediately sat up and put a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “If this isn’t working for you, we can try something else.”

And he turned out to be a nice guy. Great. Clint felt even more like a heel now.

“Look,” Julian sat next to Clint. “There’s nothing wrong with you, okay? I kind of got the vibe this wasn’t going to work. You’re just not into bondage, Clint.”

“That’s the problem. Everyone thinks I’m the biggest bottom they’ve ever known, but I’m not a Dom either.” Clint’s frustration boiled over; damn it, he liked sex, but something was always missing. He thought he’d found it when Julian had suggested this scene, but obviously not.

“I didn’t say you weren’t dominant,” Julian corrected. “You’re so a dominant in the bedroom. You like telling me what to do and when I gave you that blowjob in the showers, remember? Being dominant doesn’t mean you have to be a sadist.”

“Ah, now I see the danger of sleeping with a psychologist. Analyze me, doc, while I’m naked?” Clint snorted out a laugh.

Julian nudged him in the shoulder. “Look, we both knew up front this wasn’t going to be a permanent thing -- our jobs are too damn crazy for that, I’m still getting over my ex, and you’re pining for somebody you think you can’t have …”

“Excuse me?” Clint interrupted. “I’m so not ... “

“Oh, come on Clint. I see through trained SHIELD agents all day; I think I know when someone’s got a serious case of look-but-don’t-touch. I’m okay with it, honestly. We’re just having fun here, blowing off steam, right?” Julian looked concerned, and tentatively laid his hand on Clint’s knee.

“Yeah. That’s one of the things I like about us,” Clint admitted. “But if I can’t get it up in bed …”

“We experiment, find out what you do like. We’ve already laid out the ground rules and safe words. So we think of this as a safe zone.”

Clint sighed and shifted so he was looking at directly at the dark haired man. “You are going to make someone a very good husband one day,” Clint told him. “And if they don’t appreciate you, I’ll come around and kick their ass.”

“Dominant. So very dominant,” Julian said with a laugh. “Want to take control and tell me what to do next? Because I’m still half hard here and need you to take care of that for me.”

* * *

_With our sincerest condolences._

The bright blue icing on top of the cake spelled out the phrase around the edge of a Captain America shield. A candle in the shape of a six burned in the center of the white star.

“Better you than me, buddy,” Jasper said, slapping Phil on the back. “Drives me crazy managing one team much less a big chunk of SHIELD.”

“Hey, Phil!” Woo called, his lips and tongue stained red from the butter cream icing he was shoveling in. “Can I have your stool down at Dooley’s? I hear level sixs disappear in their offices and are never heard from again.”

Laughter ran around the break room. “Very funny and no. I’ve just gotten that stool broken in. I’m going to need a place to drown my sorrows when I get your sloppy paperwork,” Phil replied, accepting the cup of punch Maria pressed into his hand. 

“Come on, Phil. We all know you’re excited to have more people to practice your command voice on,” Quartermaine said. “All those new recruits to mold into perfect suit wearing, ass-kicking little Coulsons. It’s your dream job, admit it.”

“Oh yes, I’ve long salivated over the chance to fill out reams of paperwork and ride herd on want-to-be heroes. Be still my heart.” He raised his glass to his lips; the sticky sweet red stuff had a kick as it went down. “Alright. Who spiked the punch?”

Still doubting his decision, Phil had accepted the promotion to level six after the Nick pretty much forced him to.  Last thing Phil wanted was responsibility for more lives, but, damn it, he was good at formulating plans and running ops. He didn’t need a love life; he’d lived without one so long he was used to it. Friends, a job he was good at, the chance to make a difference -- Phil could be happy with that.

The party moved to Dooley’s when they burst the seams of the break room; Phil bought the first round and alcohol flowed freely after that.  People came and went; Maria and Natasha polished off a plate of pot roast nachos by themselves, and Nick grew slightly more relaxed once he’d downed a couple whiskeys. Phil, mellowed by some excellent scotch, found a corner booth and watched through a comfortable haze. 

“Have another.” Clint slid a fresh drink in front of Phil. “You’re far behind the rest of them.”

His defenses down, Phil reached for the glass as he was told. Clint’s voice, velvety smooth from his own whiskey, was like a stroke along Phil’s skin. The years hadn’t lessened Phil’s attraction; Clint had more than fulfilled the promise of his early days. One of the best, Clint topped most of the other agents in combat, strategy, and battle skills. No one touched his marksmanship scores, and with Natasha at his side, Clint could accomplish the impossible. At the moment, however, Phil didn’t give a damn about any of that; Clint wore a short sleeve blue t-shirt that pulled across his biceps and a pair of snug jeans, close enough that Phil could smell his cologne, the one that changed from citrusy in the morning to woodsy in the evening. Now, rich cedar and a hint of cardamom tickled Phil’s nose and stirred his libido.

“Did you eat yet?”  Phil knew Clint’s habit of skipping meals when he was running recruit training classes. Waving over the server, he waited until Clint ordered a devonshire sandwich and chips.

“Still taking care of me?” Clint’s eyes sparkled with humor. “You’re not my boss anymore, remember? Be careful; others might figure out I’m your favorite.”

“Maybe you deserve it.” The words slipped out before Phil even realized he was talking. Damn alcohol and that smile on Clint’s face. “I mean, someone’s got to because you sure don’t.”

“Yeah? And who takes care of you, Phil? Don’t you deserve someone who looks after you?” Clint turned serious, his knobby fingers twisted around his glass. “You take on too much; what about what you need?”

Phil’s breath caught in his throat as he almost drowned in those blue grey eyes. Clint tilted his head and tipped his glass up to his lips, a small drop lingering on the corner before he swiped it away with the tip of his tongue. With a throb of interest, Phil’s cock reminded him of just how long it had been since he’d paid it any attention.

“See, here’s the thing,” Clint continued. “I finally have a handle on what I want out of life and how to make it happen. Took far too many years and bad decisions, but I had some help along the way. You, on the other hand, still live for your damn job. I’ve seen your apartment, Phil. I know how many nights you sleep on your couch and this promotion is only going to make that worse.  You haven’t even been to a flea market in over a year; think of all the Cap memorabilia you’ve missed.”

“Someone’s got to keep the world turning,” Phil argued. Why he didn’t know. Everything Clint said was true. He’d noticed when Clint settled into his skin a while ago; Clint’s sass level rose but so did the amount of smiles he clocked per day. And Phil slept on his couch so often he’d worn a groove in the cushions. “It’s not like there’s lots of options for a man my age with a demanding job.”

“There are more than you realize.” Clint leaned that last little bit, crossing the barrier between close and into Phil’s personal space. Winkles ran from the corners of his eyes, the beginning of crow’s feet, laugh lines around his mouth prominent as he smiled. “For example …”

“Sorry to interrupt this little tete-a-tete, but duty calls.” Nick tossed down a packet of sober up pills. “Need both of you. Barton, get your go-pack and meet Romanov on the tarmac in 30. Coulson, you’re running Ops.”

The waitress paused by the table, confused, a thick sandwich and pile of fires on the plate in her hand.

“Can I get that to go?” Clint asked her, giving her his winning smiles as he slid out of the booth. Phil dry swallowed one of the pills and headed for the coat rack. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Fist raised to knock, Clint paused before Phil’s office door. Three months. In the last 96 days, he’d only heard Phil’s voice over open channels. No time to have a private word, Clint  had flown almost all the way around the globe twice over, the broken conversation playing on repeat in his head. How he’d been about to vomit up his feelings right there at Phil’s party. Too many dark hours to imagine all the ways it could go wrong. How Phil would reject him, let him down easy, walk away regretting Clint ever opened his mouth.

He probably wouldn’t be standing here now if Nick hadn’t ordered him to drag Phil out of his office and make him get some sleep. “Get him home and in bed and don’t let him come back for at least 48 hours. And for God’s sake make him eat something besides those sandwiches out of the vending machine. He’s going to fall over dead from food poisoning one day,” Fury had said. Manipulating son of a bitch, Nick was shoving the two of them in each other’s path again. He, at least, seemed sure of Phil’s interest.

Telling himself to sack up, Clint rapped once then opened the door as was his custom.  Head down over his computer with only a desk lamp providing light, Phil’s eyes sagged half-closed, his fingers slack on the keys. At Clint’s entrance, he jerked slightly, covered with a discreet cough, and looked up.

“Clint? You’re back? You weren’t expected until …” He glanced down at his computer, clicked a few buttons, and then sighed. “Today at 7 pm. And it’s after 10.”

“When’s the last time you’ve been out of the office? And the break room doesn’t count. Clint asked, easing into the room and standing in front of the desk.

“I met Jasper for pancakes over at that diner on … wow, okay. Been awhile,” Phil answered with a hollow laugh. The dark circles under his eyes and the wrinkled shirt told the story. So did the standard issued blanket folded on the end of the couch and the purple throw pillow Clint had bought as a gag gift lying on top of it.

“I’ve got to stop by my locker and grab a few things. That’ll take about fifteen minutes. Be ready to go when I get back.  You need a good meal and a good night’s sleep.” Clint’s tone didn’t brook any argument. He’d probably feel bad about this in the morning, but right now, Phil needed Clint to take charge.

“I’ve got three more reports,” Phil started, but then he stopped and let out a long sigh. “Give me twenty to save, file this one and log out.”

Back in less than twelve minutes, Clint waited patiently as Phil secured his computer and gathered up his jacket, saying nothing about how slowly Phil rose from the chair and the various pops from his knees from sitting too long. Instead he called and ordered take out from the noodle shop just around the corner from Phil’s place and had a car waiting for them by the time they got down to the garage. The food steamed up the brown paper bag it came in, leaving darker spots where the stock dribbled out; Phil stood quietly as Clint picked it up and rode the elevator to his floor while leaning in the corner. Phil let Clint proceed him into the small living room with its layer of dust coating the surfaces, and Clint locked the door behind them, engaging the security system.

“Go change while I set out the food,” Clint told Phil. “I’ll get drinks.”

“Did you get enough dumplings?” Phil asked as he walked down the hall, leaving the door to the bedroom open as he went inside. “You always eat half of mine.”

“Pork soup dumplings, pork and shrimp dumplings, chicken potstickers, and two bowls of soup. We’ll be fine,” Clint assured him, busying himself with pulling out two plates and forks and soy sauce from the fridge. “I got the thick noodles for you.”

“Sounds good,” Phil called back. “I think there’s beer on the bottom shelf.”

Clint rummaged around in the open fridge. “Water for you,” he replied, grabbing a plastic bottle for Phil. “You’ll sleep better without the alcohol.”

Phil huffed but didn’t argue. Just like an old married couple, Clint realized, carrying on a conversation from two different rooms and anticipating what each other needed. How much they knew about each other didn’t surprise him; what did was the way they clicked into their roles, Clint issuing the directives and Phil following his lead. Clint didn’t even ask Phil what he wanted to eat before he called in the order.

“Smells good.” Phil came out of the bedroom in a pair of blue sleep pants with a Captain America shield on the hip and a ratty Rangers t-shirt, his glasses perched on his nose. Very sexy glasses with dark frames that made his eyes all the bluer. “I might actually eat the whole bowl.”

They settled at the table and ignored the elephant in the room, talking about mundane things -- Clint’s next training class, Phil’s endless frustrations with the WSC -- food slowly disappearing. Clint managed to eat all of his dumplings and most of the potstickers, and he got Phil to finish a whole order on his own by scooping them up one at a time and handing the spoon to Phil. It was too soon to start hand feeding Phil, and Clint was jumping ahead of himself even thinking about Phil trusting him to that extent. But this was nice, just the two of them, Phil eating steadily, color coming back into his cheeks.

Before Clint drained the last drop of his beer, Phil got him a second one, popping the top and sitting back down without so much as a word.  “Thank you, Phil,” Clint said, watching the blush creep up Phil’s neck at his words. He hoped he was reading this situation right, that it wasn’t his own desire coloring the moment.

“I’ll get that,” Phil said as soon as Clint spooned up the last bit of broth. He stood and caught the edge of the bowl, intending to clean up.  Laying his hand on top of Phil’s, Clint paused, giving Phil time to look up so they were staring into each other’s eyes.

“No. Go get ready for bed. I can handle tossing away the containers.” Clint put a bit of command in his voice; Phil’s eyes widened slightly as he took in the tone. Under his palm, Phil’s hand quivered for a second then he sat the bowl back down and let it go. With a nod, Phil pulled his hand away and headed to the bathroom. “Phil,” Clint called. Phil stopped and turned. “No electronics in the bedroom. Leave your phone and tablet and anything else out here. You need a good night’s sleep. Fury can do without you for twelve hours.”

“Did he tell you that?” Phil asked, a hand on the door frame. “To take me home and make me sleep?”

Doubt lingered in Phil’s voice, worry that Clint didn’t want this, was doing what he was ordered to. Clint was having none of that. “Yeah, he mentioned it. But I’m here because I want to take care of you, Phil, just like you’ve done for me all these years. Took a while, but I figured it out finally.”

Phil smiled then, a real smile that touched his tired eyes. “Are you going to stay?”

“I’m staying as long as you’ll have me,” Clint replied.

Done in less than five minutes, Clint beat Phil into the bedroom; he turned down the covers, checked the blinds and security system on the wall, and covered the digital clock with one of Phil’s shirts. By the time Phil shuffled in, stomach full and half-asleep again, Clint had the lights off and everything ready.

“Turndown service included?” Phil joked. He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his socks, tossing them in the hamper by the dresser. “I could get used to this.”

“Go to bed, Phil,” Clint said, covering him up when Phil laid down on his back. “At least eight uninterrupted hours or I’ll be very put out with you.”

“What would you do?” Phil asked quietly, his eyes tracking Clint’s movements. “Would you punish me?”

Clint sucked in a breath and paused. “I don’t … if that’s something you like, we’ll work it out, but  … it’s not my thing. I like being in charge, setting the agenda, giving permission, but hurting someone else doesn’t do it for me.”

“Thank God.” Phil let out a long sigh. “I get enough of handcuffs and bruises at work; I don’t want it at home. It’s just, sometimes I want someone else to make the decisions, to not be responsible for every detail. And I definitely like to be told what to do in bed.”

“Well, right now you’re going to sleep. The rest we can settle later.” Clint absently stroked along Phil’s arm. As he started to go, Phil clasped his hand around Clint’s wrist.

“Stay with me. Please,” Phil murmured, his eyes already closing.

Saying no to Phil was impossible; Clint did a last sweep of the apartment, turning off all the lights then toed off his shoes and tossed his jeans and shirt onto the chair near the bed. In just his briefs, he slipped between the sheets. Phil rolled over, tucked his head in Clint’s shoulder and relaxed into sleep. For a long time, Clint lay awake, listening to Phil’s deep even breathing and tracing his fingers over the skin of Phil’s arm.

* * *

Phil woke and his eyes adjusted to the shadows in his bedroom. Not even the glow of his bedside clock provided light; just what filtered through the heavy blinds without a hint to time of day. He stretched out his arms, sheets cool to the touch, rolling onto his back.  The lethargy of a good sleep filled his limbs, his moves languid and slow.  The smell of roasted Colombian tickled his nose; he opened his eyes, let out a long sigh, and enjoyed the moment. How long had it been since he’d gotten enough sleep to wake feeling this good?

Maybe the answer could be found in the kitchen where Phil heard Clint clattering around.  He followed the scent out into the living room; as the coffee pot perked away, a half-naked Clint, clad only in a pair of low hanging jeans, bare feet creaking on the wood floors. Bending over, he rummaged in the bottom of the fridge, setting out the carton of eggs. His muscles flexed as he reached for the butter.

Phil didn’t think about it; for once, he let his heart lead. He stepped up behind Clint, caught his belt loops and cuddled up to all that bare skin, tucking his chin over Clint’s shoulder. “Morning,” he said. “At least I think it’s morning.”

“You slept almost twelve hours.” Clint wrapped his arms around his waist and covered Phil’s hands. “That deserves breakfast.”

“Let me cook for you,” Phil said. “Just tell me what you want.”

“That’s a broad offer,” Clint slipped out of Phil’s hold and turned around, leaning back against the nearest counter and tugging Phil back in, fitting their hips together. “I want it all, Phil.”

“This isn’t real.” Phil gave his hands free reign to skim along Clint’s skin. “I’m going to wake up on the couch in my office any minute now.”

“Dream of me often?” Clint’s fingers curled under Phil’s shirt and grazed the curve of his back. “And what am I doing in these dreams?”

Blood rushed to his face as he remembered all the things he’d imagined; to tell Clint made them more than fantasies. “Whatever you want to,” he answered honestly.

“Keep saying things like that and I might start to believe it.” Clint tilted his hips up, the hardening ridge of his cock pressing against Phil’s hip. “Maybe breakfast can wait.”

Phil held his breath as Clint leaned in; as light as butterfly wings, Clint’s lips brushed along Phil’s in three quick kisses, one on each corner and the last in the middle. A pause, enough to open his eyes, see into Clint’s blue-grey-green-gold corona, and saw himself reflected in the depths. Then another kiss, a firm pressure, slight tug on his bottom lip, and Phil sighed, relaxing into Clint’s hold.  He fell into the sensation, following Clint’s lead, parting his lips when Clint’s tongue slipped along the crease, breathing in Clint’s taste, tilting his head opposite of Clint’s. His fingers stroked over ridges of puckered scars, dips of skin stretched over muscles, the hard nubs of Clint’s nipples. And still they kissed, lazy, slow explorations with Clint directing. Swipes of tongue over teeth, nips at the edges, full swell sucked and pulled; Phil didn’t know kissing could be this erotic, that his whole world could narrow down to Clint’s mouth and the throbbing of his cock. Heady and sweet and hot at the same time.

The insistent buzz of a cell phone finally broke them apart.  Clint kept one hand on Phil as he dug in his pocket for the offending device. “Damn, it’s Fury. I’ve got to take this.”

This close, Phil could hear Nick’s voice as Clint held it up to his ear. “Barton!” Fury almost shouted. “You damn well better be at Phil’s apartment. I’ve sent messages to Phil’s phone but he hasn’t checked in; I expected a call earlier. Man can’t let anything go.”

“Actually, you can talk to him right now. Here he is.” Clint held the phone out to Phil. “It’s for you,” he told Phil.

“I’d say good morning,” Phil said, tucking his phone to his ear after reluctantly taking his hand away from Clint’s skin. “But I’m not sure what time it is. I just woke up.”

“Well, thank God for that. You were getting pricklier than a porcupine. I thought Barton would do the trick,” Nick replied. “Now, I want you to take the weekend off. Don’t come in until Monday, you hear me? Go to a museum or see a movie or do something, anything, but sit and brood in your office.”

“Actually, I’ve got some vacation time coming,” Phil said, watching the smile spread across Clint’s face. “I’m thinking more like Wednesday. If we leave now, we could make it to that cabin of Sitwell’s.”

“We? Jesus fucking Christ, it’s about time. Tired of you moping around here, and let me tell you the eye fucking gets old. Take the whole week. Get it out of your system.  Come back sunburned with that stupid grin you get when you’ve gotten laid. That’s an order, Phil. I’ll know where to find you two if I need you.”

The line clicked dead and a moment of awkward silence fell. “I should have asked if you wanted to go away with me,” Phil said, worried about Clint’s reaction. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no.” Clint tossed the phone onto the counter. “It doesn’t work that way for me. I don’t expect you to be all yes, sir all the time. Hell, I don’t even have to have it in bed; plain old vanilla sex would be high on my wish list with you.”

“We need to talk about this, set out boundaries and safe words,” Phil agreed. “But I like plain old vanilla sex too. Mostly, I just want to spend time with you.”

“God, Phil, that sounds perfect,” Clint said, swooping in for another quick kiss. “Why don’t you jump in the shower and get packed. I’ll call Jasper and see if the cabin’s free, although I think he’d kick his grandmother out if it meant us getting together.  Then we’ll run by my place and I can throw a few things into a bag and we’ll be out of here. Maybe stop at that diner with the great pancakes for some breakfast and be there in time to catch some fresh fish for dinner.”

“Always said you were good at making plans, Barton,” Phil replied.

* * *

“God, you’re so good Phil. Just like that.”

The moist warmth of Phil’s mouth engulfed Clint, tongue tracing the edges and applying pressure to all the right spots. Clint buried his hands in Phil’s hair and gave up maintaining the illusion he was watching the 49ers’ game on the big screen TV, closing his eyes and dropping his head back on the couch. Good wasn’t the right word; Phil gave the best blow jobs of anyone Clint had met. As if Phil Coulson dropping to his knees and sucking Clint off right in the middle of the second quarter wasn’t enough, the man was a wizard with his tongue and lips.

“Almost there, Phil. Almost …”

In the four nights they’d been here, Clint had learned just how good sex could be when two people fit together. A balance between needs, give and take of negotiation, years of working together and silent communication.  Lazy morning half-sleepy sex, wet slick shower sex, long thorough blow jobs, slippery hands wringing orgasms, and hours of fondling cuddly kisses. Phil in his arms, in his bed, in his life. Sharing a blanket, stoking the fire in the hearth, sipping whiskey, watching TV, falling asleep wound together.

Sweaty and sated, they laid awake, tangled in the sheets of the small double bed, and talked openly and honestly about expectations, the baggage they carried. Clint’s inner voice that sounded like his father,  the pressure to be small and unnoticed, the struggle to carve out a life as the survivor of abuse. For Phil, it was the good intentions of a loving family who wanted to fit him into a neat category of masculine behavior. How Clint discovered he was bi, and when Phil realized he was gay. Mistakes they’d made in relationships, the trial and error of learning their own bodies. The day Phil first lusted over Clint’s ass and the op where Phil first trusted Clint. What they liked, what they didn’t like, and what they wanted to do in bed. And out of it. And everywhere.

“Phil.”

Clint sighed the name as he came, clenching his hands into fists and tugging Phil forward to swallow every drop.  As part of the scene, Clint pulled his hands away as Phil pushed back, pausing to swipe a drop from the corner of Phil’s lips and suck it into his own mouth.

“You’re so good,” Clint said, tracing the line of Phil’s jaw. “Thank you, Phil.”

There was no mistaking the pleasure in Phil’s eyes at the praise. He stayed still, waiting for Clint to give him permission to move.

“I need another beer,” Clint said, checking the bottle on the end table. “And reheat the wings. Then you may take care of yourself. Here, on the couch. Where I can watch.”

“Yes, sir.” Phil stood up, his knees popping. He carefully tucked Clint back into his jeans and buttoned them. Rolling his shoulder, he headed into the kitchen, his cock hard and pressing against his zipper.

“We need to get a pillow,” Clint said, catching the remote in his hand. “I have hardwood floors at my place too.”

“I’m not a spring chicken anymore,” Phil agreed, popping the plate into the microwave with a paper towel covering it. “A few too many injuries. The knees are the first to go.”

He came back with the rewarmed chicken in one hand and an ice cold bottle of Clint’s favorite in the other. After he sat them down, he put a couple of the wings out on a paper plate and left them on the end table within Clint’s reach. Only then did he sit down on his side of the couch and raise an eyebrow in Clint's direction.

“Go on,” Clint gave permission. Picking up the food, Clint settled back in the corner where he could see both game and Phil’s fingers already rubbing along the seam of his jeans. “So damn hot, Phil.  God, I love watching you.”

* * *

“Brantley, Boswell, Liu, Rogero, Trevon, Ward.” Jasper ran down the list of recruits. “Van der Boar’s out, along with Perez and Nichols.”

“Nichols was tops from SciTech,” Maria said. “If we don’t approve her for field service, she could work R & D.”

“Perez is highly rated on subterfuge. I’d keep him over Nichols,” Fury said and turned his eye on Phil for his opinion.

“Clint?” Phil asked instead of answering.

Clint turned from the window where was watching judo training. “Nichols has alienated everyone in the class by bed hopping her way through most of the men and half the women. Waits until they’ve been drinking then uses the same pickup line; she zeros in on the one who can help her get through whatever test or assignment she needs then dumps them. They’re starting to compare notes. Perez sneaks out to an S&M club on the weeks where she has a Dom who whips her. Very nice lady from Queens who runs a hair salon, been seeing her for over a year. If Perez comes clean, I’d keep her. Nichols? She’ll jump from team to team until you can’t find anyone who wants to work with her.”

Phil didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow for Clint to continue.

“Van der Boar’s an asshole, so he’s gone. Boswell’s been running the underground poker tournament that Jasper won a couple hundred at last weekend.” Clint grinned at Sitwell. “Enterprising young man. Put him on the fast track for team leadership. Liu and Rogero will be solid team players after some sanding of their rough edges. Brantley’s best suited for data analysis; doesn’t have the temperament for field work, but damn brilliant at seeing patterns.”

Practically beaming with pride, Phil let his pleasure show. Clint’s assessments were spot on. “And Ward? Highest scores in espionage and combat. Follows orders well.”

Clint paused for two heartbeats before he answered. “On paper, he’s a great candidate. In person, he’s got the personality of a wet sponge, but he’ll get the job done quickly and efficiently.”

“But?” This time it was Fury who prompted Clint to continue.

“He’s … like a trapeze artist. Watch him from the stands and he’s covered in bright colors and sparkles, confidently flying through the air and performing death defying feats. But if you get in close … and I don’t think anyone has gotten behind the mask yet … you’ll find sweat and fear and lots of missing stitches and beadwork. I just get a bad vibe from him, like it’s all for show.” Clint shrugged. “I’d pass him on but watch him like a hawk.”

“Okay then, we’re agreed? Van der Boar and Nichols are wash outs. Perez and Ward go to espionage, but flag Ward’s file. Brantley to D.A., Liu and Rogero to advanced combat, and Boswell to Leadership Training. Good. It’s decided.” Fury nodded to them all and left, off to yet another meeting on his endless list.

God, but Phil loved it when Clint got the recognition he deserved. He’d have to do something special for Clint tonight when they got home, maybe stop by the market and pick up the makings for his favorite tomato vodka penne along with a good bottle of cabernet. Garlic bread; that would put Clint in a horny mood.  There was a Knicks’ game on pay-per-view …

“Oh for God’s sake, it’s been nine months. When is the honeymoon phase going to be over?” Jasper said, interrupting Phil’s train of thought. “Just being the same room as you two gives me a sugar rush.”

“Sugar rush isn’t how I’d phrase it,” Maria said with a laugh. “I’m going to go make a phone call, see if I can find a date for the weekend. Far too much pheromones floating around here lately.”

“Speaking of the honeymoon phase,” Clint said. “I’ve been thinking. I know your lease is coming up …”

“Yes,” Phil said without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

“Gah!” Jasper fled for the door. “Okay, I’m out of here before they start kissing.”

“Congratulations,” Maria said on her way out. “Let me know if you need a good realtor. Denmead’s wife is an agent; she sold me my place.”

“That’s a good idea. Let’s find a place that’s ours. Two bedrooms so you can put all your Cap stuff out,” Clint said.

“With space to store your bows,” Phil agreed.

“And a really big bed,” Clint returned with a smile. “We can talk about it over dinner. What do you want?”

“Whatever you do,” Phil replied.

 

[1] “My Life Has Stood a Loaded Gun” by Emily Dickinson


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